


a parasite needs a host

by Anonymous



Series: a feeling's not a thing you own [10]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Body Horror, Depression, Eating Disorders, Gen, Medication, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:40:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21526891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Patton is dead.Unlike someone else.
Relationships: Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders & Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Deceit Sanders & Thomas Sanders
Series: a feeling's not a thing you own [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1453462
Comments: 18
Kudos: 39
Collections: anonymous





	a parasite needs a host

**Author's Note:**

> whoo whoo it's almost midnight!!! i'm supposed to be painting my room tomorrow so f to me i guess
> 
> c o n t e n t w a r n i n g s : so the basics of this series so far, and then someone viewing an acquired deformity with uncomfortably voyeuristic horror, and implied force-feeding. references to events in parts four and five are made. no, this is not the home stretch. things are going to get better, but not permanently

“Meds: I’m on it,” Thomas mutters to himself, as he takes the aforementioned meds. He’s pottering around Joan and Talyn’s kitchen, while they sleep very awkwardly on the arm of the couch and on the floor.

It’s the last day he’s spending with them, having spent the last few nights on their couch to prove to them both how okay he is. Despite that fact, he always woke up in the middle of the night to feel them curl up beside him, in positions that couldn’t be comfortable.

He figures that the three of them are going to be using Snapchat a lot in the next few weeks, just so that they can see that he’s okay. That’s okay. They need that, because he hasn’t really given them much reason to believe that he won’t hurt himself.

“Brekkie for the Tommy, brekkie for my tum,” he sings to himself idly. Then he repeats that little phrase, just so he can hear it again, and experience the pleasure of his voice making noise.

Another voice joins in, just like Thomas’s, but smoother, like oozing honey. “Brekkie for my centre, brekkie for the sun.”

“Sun?” Thomas asks, as he carefully pours the soy milk over his off-brand wheat biscuits.

“Metaphorical sun.” The human side of Ethan’s face turns pink. “You know. Centre of the universe.”

Yep. That same colour is probably showing up on Thomas’s cheeks, now, if the warmth of his face is anything to go by.

To avoid replying to Ethan, Thomas puts a spoonful of the-wheat-biscuit-that-shall-not-be-named into his mouth and chews on the bits of oat that haven’t already absorbed the milk. They crumble over his tongue, while the parts of it that have already turned to sludge accumulate around his molars until he swallows. The debatable cereal descends down his throat slowly, like-

Like something or other. Either way, it’s thick, and he has to swallow twice.

He glances at the stove dials, even though he hasn’t used it today. A glance back to his cereal, at the kitchen table, and-

“Hey, Virgil!” smiles Thomas, ignoring the sense of rising dread.

“’Sup,” Virgil responds.

His expression is flat, but not from his normal state of constant exhaustion. It changes when Thomas takes his next spoonful of soggy wheat biscuit.

“You shouldn’t be eating,” says Virgil, then immediately slaps a hand over his forehead. “Shit, sorry.”

Ethan waves an arm, grasping at the air and pulling lazily. In the general space that he was gesturing towards, Logan rises up, still trying to tie his necktie. When he looks up to see Thomas and the other two watching him, his face also flushes the exact same rosy shade.

“You’re eating without prompting?” Even though Logan’s enthusiasm is clearly displayed on his smiling face, Thomas’s gut still twists in expectation.

He should be hearing something like, _“You fat bastard. How are you ever going to look presentable again if you keep on stuffing your face like that?”_

Or, maybe, _“Choke on it. Choke on that stodgy shit and_ die _.”_

“Thomas, that’s fantastic,” Logan says instead of any of that, as he moves to sit at the chair next to Virgil. “I’m proud of you.”

His smile lingers for a second longer than Thomas remembers it doing, before all of this started spiralling out of control, and before he was sat in the pews at a wedding that he desperately wanted to ignore, smiling and congratulating his friends and wishing he didn’t resent them.

And he doesn’t, anymore. They got their happy day, and Thomas will get his, eventually.

“This is weird,” says Virgil.

Thomas swallows twice, again. Then he eats another spoonful.

“Is nobody going to acknowledge that this is weird?” asks Virgil. “Are we, like, gonna sort out this weirdness?”

Logan raises an eyebrow. “In what way? This _‘weirdness’_ , as you phrase it, is welcome, in my opinion, at least. Thomas is taking care of himself. This should be encouraged.”

Thomas regards the rest of the sludge in his bowl, and opts to peel one of the oranges in the fruit bowl, instead. Having something to do with his hands is a good distraction from whatever’s making him uncomfortable right now.

“But what if something’s _wrong_?” Virgil gestures with both hands, as if showing his palms upturned and his tension-curled fingers would somehow communicate his point better to Logan.

“Something has been _‘wrong’_ for a while,” Logan replies. “Thomas’s improving self-care is a sign that his mental state is improving, which is likely due to the combination of talk therapy and medication, rather than simply _citalopram_.”

He honestly _sneers_ that last word with a twist of his lips, and a tone filled with waspish disdain that wouldn’t have been misplaced coming from Ethan, all those months ago.

“That’s not the _point_ ,” groans Virgil.

With a raise of his eyebrow, Logan asks, “Then what is?”

“Something’s different. Like, it’s different from _before_.” Virgil wrings his hands together. “There’s something completely unfamiliar in the mindscape, and we all need to slow down to figure it out.”

Thomas separates the orange segments one by one, leaving the white bits of rind on, because he heard that they were healthier. They feel like eating string made of soft cardboard, but it doesn’t really matter, whichever way.

Logan’s face softens, with his eyebrows drawing up like how Patton’s used to, whenever anyone seemed even the littlest bit sad. He reaches out, quivering, until his hand is resting on Virgil’s upper arm.

“I’m sorry, Virgil,” he says, and he does actually _sound_ sorry. “Everything’s different, now. Everything will… It will _feel_ different. All of our – no, all of _Thomas’s_ emotional processing will be affected by Patton’s absence. We must adapt to live without him in order to recover, and to function at an adequate level.”

“Live _without him_?”

Thomas flinches. Virgil can be vicious at times; Thomas knows better than anyone just how cruel his Anxiety can become. This, though, is something else.

“You want us to live _without_ Patton?” snarls Virgil, pushing out his chair to loom over the two of them.

“We don’t have a choice, Virgil,” Logan says, with a tone as even as it always is. “You know this.”

Virgil opens his mouth, and no sound emerges. He swallows, which Thomas knows because he can see Virgil’s throat bob up and down for a second. Then, when he tries to speak, the only ound that he makes is a quiet sob.

“Virgil-”

Thomas stands as quickly as he can, squashing an orange segment under the hand he slams on the table to stabilise himself. The juice squirts everywhere in thin, sticky bursts, and the segment flops down from his palm when he lifts it from the table.

It doesn’t matter. Virgil’s already sunk out, leaving Thomas to wonder when Ethan left, as well.

* * *

“Remus,” says the upright head.

“Roman,” the other responds.

They’re truly grotesque. It’s why Deceit has hidden them.

Despite everything he’s said, and all the ways he’s played house with his centre, that is who he is. He is Deceit. He may not constantly lie, but he will obscure facts. He hides Sides; he disguises the parts of Thomas that they all pretend don’t exist.

Thankfully, Thomas hasn’t asked after his Creativity. If the sight of them makes Deceit’s stomach churn, he can’t imagine what it would do to Thomas.

“Roman.”

“Remus.”

“Brother.”

“ _Brother_.”

“ _Brother_!”

“Okay, you two,” Deceit sighs, rolling his eyes. “I brought breakfast.”

He places the tray on the ground in front of Creativity. Four slices of wholemeal bread, toasted in the mindscape so that they never go cold, and smothered in Crofters.

Logan’s Berry, to be precise.

Deceit had considered giving them the option to apply the jam, thick and red as mushed up guts, or to just have the toast plain, but then he considered what Remus could do with just a butter knife.

The head that used to be Roman’s sneers at the food in disdain while the head that he seemed to be glued to shovels the toast into his own mouth, getting jam caught in his moustache.

The arm in the middle ran a single finger through the jam on a remaining slice of toast, then brought it to Roman’s lips. He licked it, just for his face to twist into deep disgust.

“Didn’t deserve it,” he growls. “I deserved.”

He doesn’t stop speaking after that, but his words turn into an intense, unintelligible mumble, like the buzzing of a swarm of hornets. To that droning sound, Deceit regarded his newest guests. Guest. He doesn’t know.

Between them, they have four legs, three arms, and two heads. Their bodies merge at an angle; not perfectly facing forwards, but not quite perpendicular. Kind of like they were posing for a picture together, hugging but smiling at the camera, and then they were frozen that way.

When Deceit had found them, screaming harmoniously as they wandered Thomas’s mind, he’d seen their limping gait. They were quite literally joined at the hip, wedged together awkwardly. The half of the body that would have been Remus seemed to lead their joined stride, while Roman hobbled alongside, dragging his centremost leg behind them.

Their torsos were similarly melded together. Their shirts had been lost during whatever accident made them that way, though they had replaced them with a billowing poet shirt in a dark shade of charcoal. It mostly hides where there had once been a thick red line along where their body must have first been joined, which had faded to a shiny pink, like a burn scar, over the past few days. Then, out of the centre, lower than their shoulders, their third arm emerges.

Going from the placement of the hand, it should have been Remus’s arm, but Roman seemed to control it more often than not. Then again…

“Remus.” Remus’s voice is muffled through the last slice of the toast. Well, the last slice but one. “Brother, _eat_.”

Roman breaks from his muttering to yell, “ _No_!”

“Remus, eat, Roman,” says Remus. He brings the toast up to Roman’s mouth with his outermost hand. “Eat.”

“No.” Roman says that through clenched teeth. Jam brushes at his lips.

“Eat! _Eat_!”

The top-left half of Roman’s head is fused to Remus’s, right from his ear to his jaw. It makes the attempted handfeeding messy. Corners of toast poke Roman in the cheek, and the eye, and it brushes against Remus’s own chin. Honestly, if Deceit had an appetite, seeing Creativity trying to eat would have ruined it.

They don’t even need food. Ethan’s just a fool who can’t bring himself to let them go without.

Deceit brushes his finger and thumb against each other in a silent imitation of a snap, and the plate vanishes. He leaves his room, locking the door to his state of mind behind him.

Today, he doesn’t particularly want to watch Remus try to force-feed his brother. Maybe he’ll be able to comfort them tomorrow.

Maybe, tomorrow, he’ll bring himself to touch them.

* * *

Virgil rises in an unfamiliar room.

Thomas is home; he can tell that much. The general shape of the room is like Thomas’s living room in his own apartment, but that’s kind of the only similarity.

Most of the room is empty. There’s the basic stuff, like the long couch, and the blinds that are drawn to block out the blankness of outside. Virgil is in his normal place, around the foot of the stairs.

The walls, though, are blank white, instead of the magnolia-ish colour that the apartment came with. Where there’s a clock, or a piece of art, or whatever in everyone else’s room, all that hangs on the wall is, well, a hanging hook, to hang things on. Waiting for something to be placed there.

“Hi!”

Virgil turns rapidly at the sound of that voice. In an instant, his eyes are wide, and his muscles are tensed. He’s ready to run; either towards or away from the threat. The thing is, the room is suddenly filled with fog that’s so thick and opaque that it doesn’t seem like it should be so easily breathed.

“Who are you?”

The voice is chipper. It’s innocent in a way that doesn’t seem entirely realistic, to Virgil at least. It may be soft, high-pitched, and quavering, but…

“Patton?” Virgil breathes, as if asking the question would break the spell, and that tiny essence of what makes Patton _Patton_ would dissipate.

For a moment, he sees a flicker of sky blue in the midst of the mist. It feels like hope.

“Who’s that?” the voice asks. “Is that you? Are you Patton?”

Virgil shakes his head, squeezing his eyes tight until he remembers that he needs to be on alert. Unfamiliar situation. Unfamiliar individual. He can’t let himself feel his heart breaking. He can’t afford to acknowledge that.

“ _No_ , I’m _not_ ,” he snaps. “I was asking you if _you_ were.”

“I’m not.” The voice seems even softer, now. “Sorry.”

“Then who the fuck _are_ you?” Virgil pulls his fingers through his knotted hair and _yanks_.

The mist begins to fade like a pretentious metaphor; slowly, then all at once. The room is once again visible, though it seems different.

Virgil’s eyes flicker around. There’s a rainbow flag hanging on the wall where Virgil’s clock is in his room, with white, pink, blue, brown, and black stripes in a chevron along the top. Instead of the closed blinds from before, a pair of translucent white curtains hangs in front of a landscape of beautiful green grass, topped with a blue sky that’s peppered in white clouds like tiny tufts of candyfloss. The corner where the kitchen usually is is still covered in that fog, though.

In the centre of the room, where Thomas normally stands, is another Side.

Virgil’s heart jumps in his throat. He chokes.

He looks like Thomas. Well, _that’s_ obvious. They _all_ look like Thomas. They’re all _Thomas_ ; that’s the _point_. He looks like Thomas in that way that Remus does, or Ethan, though. Those Sides have extreme differences from Thomas, like fucked-up eyes, and scales, or a Disney villain moustache. This kid looks different, too, but he just looks younger; more starry-eyed. Actually, no. He’s not just got metaphorical stars in his eyes, but _literal_ stars covering his face. Tiny, and five-pointed, like pentagrams drawn in ink that bleeds and just automatically colours the inside.

That’s not a problem. The next thing, though, _is_.

The Side is dressed in sky blue. Cyan. Whatever you want to approximate it to. He’s wearing _Patton’s_ colour. It’s in the bow in his hair. It’s in the nightdress. Jesus, who the hell put this kid in a fucking _nightdress_?

It’s not the same as the one Roman’s fake Patton wore. The frills aren’t arranged in the same way. The skirt is a little shorter; it’s just below the knee instead of mid-calf.

But, still, when Virgil looks at this new side, nausea rises in him like he’s just eaten a loaf of Wonder Bread and two tubs of ice cream. It’s cold. It’s revolting.

It makes him wish he was-

“What the _fuck_ are you?”

Is that his own voice? Those are the words that Virgil wants to say, but they don’t sound like him. That, or it’s just how he sounds when he’s mad, and he’s finally feeling the full effect of the terror he tries to instil in everyone else when they _don’t fucking listen_ -

The Side giggles, like he doesn’t know how much danger he’s in.

“I don’t know! Thomas was just taking his meds one morning, looking out of the window, and the sky was _so blue_. And the brightness of the sky made the grass ever so vibrant, like emeralds. And I remember that he was thinking that the world is actually kind of beautiful, and how, uh… Like, how _infinitesimal_ the chances of existing are. And, like, how life’s a gift, or something. And then, poof!” He pushes his hands in front of his face like he’s Thomas doing a _‘peace out’_. “I existed!”

Virgil narrows his eyes. “Since when?”

The new side’s lips purse into a little pout while his eyebrows furrow, like a pantomime of deep thought. Abruptly, he looks up at Virgil, beaming. “Twelve days ago! But, like, I’ve been kind of aware of things for a while. There was this time where I first formed, but then I just poofed out. I think I was really happy, but for a really bad reason? It felt gross. It was like it went against my entire self, which is, you know, kinda weird, since I'd literally just formed.”

“It’s been twelve days, and you still haven’t left your room?” Yeah, Virgil isn’t even _trying_ to hide the suspicion in his voice, or the fact that he’s ignoring the kid’s coherent rambling.

Just as quickly as his expression changed before, the Side’s face falls open into an amazed grin. “I have _a room_?”

Virgil blinks a couple of times, then gestures to the side’s room.

“ _This_ is my room?” The Side is looking around, open-mouthed. “It’s a bit plain, but I like the stuff that’s up! I can always add to it later, you know? I can put up pictures of us, and Thomas! I hope we can all be really good friends!”

Huh.

Virgil says, “Have you, you know…”

“I don’t, but please continue!” the Side responds.

“Figured it out.” Virgil waves a hand out at the Side. “What you are.”

Again, that exaggerated expression spreads across his face. “No, I haven’t. Sorry.”

At his despondent tone, Virgil wonders. Is he wrong? Has he jumped to a conclusion? He always does that. It wouldn’t be a surprise.

“But I’m sure I’ll figure it out!” Isn’t it illegal to be so loud and peppy? “I’ll ask for help, if I need it!”

In the future, Virgil might think that he should have stopped himself. Kept himself from saying that one thing.

“Hope.”

The starry side blinks. “Say what now?”

“Hope, Optimism, whatever you want to call it,” Virgil intones. “That’s you.”

The Side seems to mull that over for a while. “Hope… _Hope_ … I like that, I think! Hope!” He begins to bounce up and down, with all of the speed and power of a gently thrown balloon. “ _Hope_! I’m Hope!”

Thing is, though, all Virgil can think of is that there’s something _new_ in Thomas’s mindscape. Something _different_ , that didn’t exist before, because he hadn’t needed to. Because Patton had been there, to be all of the emotions, and all of the nostalgia. The nostalgia which would, in a normal person without Anxiety, drive Thomas to be better, and emerge from those slumps of uselessness, instead of wishing for an idealised past that he can never return to, because it kind of never existed in the first place.

“Who are you, though?” asks Hope. “I think I asked before, but I don’t remember if you answered.”

“Virgil,” he replies, barely thinking. Virgil. _V_ , for Violet, and Vigilance, and Violence. “I’m Thomas’s Anxiety.”

Hope blinks. “So, you’re kind of my opposite?”

“Sure.” Virgil shrugs, not really listening.

“Then we’re meant to be best friends!” Hope is exclaiming. “We’re gonna balance each other out, like Ruby and Sapphire, or Mario and Luigi, or Luna and Ginny, or Spock and Kirk, or Batman and Robin…”

He keeps rambling on, but Virgil isn’t listening.

He’s thinking.

He’s Anxiety. He protects Thomas from the outside world, but he’s got to branch out and protect him from _himself_. Who knows what Hope will do to Thomas? All that unchecked optimism is genuinely terrifying. Thomas shouldn’t have to face so much overwhelming excitement and enthusiasm for fickle wishes that won’t come true. It’ll _crush_ him.

Anxiety was built to crush any feeling of hope that something might not be so bad. He is made for the worst-case scenario; to preserve the self, even when death seems inevitable. He does all he can, then hides and hopes to avoid the worst of the consequences.

He crushes any feeling of hope.

He crushes hope.

Virgil blinks one last time, then leans forwards. The butterfly-like fluttering in his chest is pounding against his thudding heart. His body is tensed; taut like a bowstring.

He’s ready to do his job.


End file.
